Do you know what it’s like to live in a rented flat for years on end, never knowing when you’ll be told to pack up and leave? My husband, Oliver, and I have been renting for seven years. In that time, we’ve faced it all—landlords suddenly needing the place back because their son’s university plans fell through, neighbours making life unbearable, or rent hikes with no explanation. All the while, we’ve put off starting a family because how could we raise a child in such uncertainty?
We’d even consider living with family—mine or his—but their places are too small, and they’ve nothing to spare. Oliver and I both finished uni, married young, and dreamed of being lively, hands-on parents by now. These days, I’m not even sure I want that. What if our child grows up feeling like a stranger to us, the way today’s youth with their baffling views sometimes do?
We both work, save diligently, and live frugally—no meals out, no holidays—all for one goal: a home of our own. But no matter how hard we scrimp, it’s never enough. Then, as if that weren’t enough, Oliver’s father developed serious heart problems. He’s not old, but his health is failing, and Oliver’s been helping cover his medical bills. Of course, it strains our budget, but what choice is there? Family comes first.
Then, out of the blue, my mum, Margaret, told us she’d inherited a tidy sum from her aunt. She wanted to help us—top up our savings so we could finally buy a modest one-bed flat. We were over the moon! We started hunting, first with an estate agent, then on our own.
Some listings seemed perfect until haggling got us swiftly dismissed. Others were dismal—a windowless shoebox or a glorified cupboard advertised as a “cosy nest.” Still, we persisted, sacrificing time, energy, even sleep, all for the dream of our own home.
Then Oliver visited his parents. He came back quiet, distant. That evening, he sat me down. His father’s condition had worsened. Surgery might be his only hope—a slim one, but still a chance. Oliver said he believed we should give Mum’s gift towards his father’s treatment. “Life matters more than bricks and mortar,” he said. “We’ll earn the money back. But Dad… he might not have time.”
He spoke with such raw pain, such conviction. I stayed silent. Later, I tried to reason: it wasn’t our money yet. Mum hadn’t handed it over. She’d meant it for us, not his parents. Yes, his father’s illness was terrible—but how could I redirect her generosity to a cause she’d never agreed to?
After that, Oliver looked at me like I was a stranger. Called me selfish. Said if it were my dad, I wouldn’t hesitate. Now, our conversations are cold, polite—like flatmates, not spouses. And I’m no longer sure a home is worth having if we live in it as strangers.
When Mum learned of Oliver’s plan, she refused to transfer the money early. She’d only hand it over on completion day, once the flat was truly ours.
I understand. It’s her money, meant for us, not in-laws. But it doesn’t ease the ache. I don’t want to lose my husband. I just wanted a home—a nest for us. Instead, I’ve got distrust, resentment, and a chill between us.
People have taken sides—his mates back him, mine back me. But all I want is peace, love, and a place where we belong. Yet somehow, that’s proving harder than scraping together a deposit.
So tell me—who’s in the right here? The lesson, perhaps, is that even the purest intentions can fracture when love and duty pull in opposite directions.
